


Mess Around

by astxrwar



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Drabble Collection, F/M, Fluff, M/M, Multi, most of these are gender-neutral reader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-23 14:38:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9661715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astxrwar/pseuds/astxrwar
Summary: A collection of drabble fills from my tumblr.





	1. Clint x Reader "The skirt is supposed to be this short."

So--

A new mission takes you and Clint Barton to a bed-and-breakfast by the coast to track down a SHIELD agent that had apparently gone rogue after acquiring some potentially dangerous information from the servers. Said important information is saved on a flash drive that you currently have shoved inside your underwear compartment in your suitcase (for safekeeping, right? Who’s going to look through someone’s underwear?). The SHIELD agent is, of course, detained at the closest hospital and the case, apparently, is over.

Except--

Well. 

You and Clint hadn’t expected everything to go nearly as smoothly as it had, and that meant that your room in the  _ very  _ expensive bed-and-breakfast is still booked for another three days.

With no refunds, of course.

“Looks like we’ll just have to stay,” Clint says upon realizing this, struggling to keep his expression blank and failing. “Wouldn’t want to waste Stark’s money, would we?”

“No,” you agree seriously, despite the fact that the two of you had done exactly that on several other occasions. “No, we couldn’t  _ possibly.” _

And that marks a three-day adventure into beach forays and shared milkshakes and carnival games on the boardwalk and of course, an undeniably high level of weird tension which you had both been doing a pretty good job of ignoring up until this point. It’s hard to put a finger on what kind of tension it is, but it becomes infinitely _harder_ to ignore when you’re spending literally all your time at the beach being subjected to Clint parading around without a fucking _shirt_ on, because hot fucking _damn_ it’s not _fair_ that he gets to be entirely _too old for you_ but also have like, _ridiculously_ well-defined muscles which you spend most of your time trying not to stare at.

So he’s attractive, yeah, but that doesn’t really  _ mean  _ anything.

It doesn’t.

Not until Clint challenges you to a not-so-friendly game of ring toss at the boardwalk carnival and you catch him staring appreciatively at the curve of your ass in your ridiculously short vintage cutoffs as you lean over to pick up a ring, and you realize--

He totally wants to fuck you.

What the fuck.

And it’s like a lightbulb goes off above your head like in those cartoons from the nineties and you want to  _ laugh  _ because how does this man even manage to be half of a threat in the field if this is how he goes about wooing unsuspecting girls and you  _ know,  _ okay, you  _ know  _ that this is a chance that you cannot  _ possibly  _ pass up.

You start wearing shorter shorts and smaller bikinis and you parade around your shared room in the morning dressed in nothing but an almost-too-see-through t-shirt and literally the  _ laciest  _ underwear you can unearth from the depths of your suitcase. He responds in turn: his jokes get more suggestive and his stares become a little more obvious and it quickly becomes a sort of  _ game  _ between the two of you, to see who will crack first, and if there’s one thing you’re certain of it’s the fact that you  _ won’t  _ lose.

And you don’t. Obviously. 

You start wearing lipstick and find a cute little push-up bra in a store by the boardwalk and hide your smiles when Clint’s eyes track literally every movement you make and you bite back laughter when he chokes out a lost sort of sound like he’s floundering for something  _ appropriate  _ to say when you come out of the bathroom in the absolute smallest thing you own.

“The skirt is supposed to be this short,” you supply helpfully, spinning around for show. 

Clint looks at you blankly for a long,  _ long  _ moment.

“Okay, you win,” he says, shaking his head. “God  _ damn.” _


	2. Charles Xavier x Reader "Promise me you'll stay." + "The kiss tasted like tears."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some sad Charles drabbles.

_“Promise me you’ll stay.”_

It happens after.

After Cuba, after Shaw, after the deflected bullet severs Charles’ spine and after Erik left and after the anesthetic wore off, after the doctors tell him he’ll never be able to walk again, after he watches everyone he’s ever vowed to protect get shipped off to Vietnam or to laboratories or to jail cells–

Charles cries.

He clutches your shirt and he cries, he lets something off the leash, something sad and lonely and miserable at the core of what this life had built up in him. The isolation, the hiding, growing up too fast, the monsters that he tries not to be and the monster he was born as, the people he’s lost– all the people he’s lost–people he doesn’t even know, yet, people he’s yet to lose, people he can’t get too close to, just in case– they all surface, screaming.

“I’m sorry, I’m so–I’m so sorry,” he manages, fist tight around a clear vial Hank had given him earlier this morning.

You don’t blame him.

You don’t stop him when he forces the needle into the vein in the crook of his arm and slumps down against the wall.

He looks up at you. 

 _“Please_ ,” he says, desperately. “I don’t have anyone left. Promise me–” he stands up, his legs shaking, for the first time in years, “Promise me you’ll stay.”

You do the only thing you can do. You hug him, tightly. “Of course I will.”

You sleep in the same bed that night. For once, he doesn’t have nightmares.

_40\. The kiss tasted like tears._

You were rescued by Raven on a Saturday. 

You book a flight to New York, a bus ride to Westchester. The gravel driveway of the mansion, dark grey and dotted with cream-colored pebbles, crunches beneath your feet.

You look up, and see Charles Xavier for the first time in three years. 

His hair is nearly shoulder-length and his face is unshaven and there are deep, bruised bags under his eyes, he’s wearing a bathrobe even though it’s nearly three in the afternoon and he’s holding tightly to the neck of a forty-year-old bottle of scotch.

You remember, idly, that Charles wasn’t able to drink anything strong. He was a lightweight. You wonder what else changed since you’d been gone.

“(Name),” he says, awed and quiet. His voice is hoarse, like he hasn’t used it in a while.

Your chest swells up like a too-full balloon and suddenly you’re choking on bittersweet nostalgia and sadness and an overwhelming feeling of _loss,_ as you watch a man that you don’t quite recognize walk towards you over the grass.

“I–” he starts, halting in front of you. His voice trembles.

Charles takes your hand. His skin is rougher, more calloused than you remember. His fingers hover over the suture scar near your wrist. He swallows thickly.

You don’t mention it. He doesn’t, either.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, staring at the ground. “God, I’m so sorry, it’s my fault.”

“Stop it,” you say, automatically. Charles doesn’t listen.

“– I couldn’t save you. I’m so– I’m so sorry, I tried, I did, but I couldn’t– I couldn’t– I would’ve done anything, anything at all to get you back, I’m so fucking sorry, (Name), I–”

And your throat closes up, it tightens, constricts around sadness and pity and longing, and then you step closer and you take his face in your hands and you kiss him. 

You kiss him, because you don’t want to listen. You kiss him because you don’t like what he’s saying and you don’t like what it means, you don’t like that it’s been three years and you’re still just as fucking lost as you were when they took you.

You kiss him because you want to stop thinking and you kiss him because you want him to stop talking and you kiss him so that maybe everything won’t feel so wrong. You were back. You were home. You were safe. And distantly, you know that you should be happy, you should be hugging him and smiling and laughing and relishing in your newfound freedom, but–

You just feel numb.

The kiss tasted like tears.


	3. Loki x Reader "He wasn't as tough as they all thought. And she knew it."

She’s just a human.

Puny and weak and _insignificant_ , really, she lacks a mutation or a power or any particularly useful skill, and Loki cannot for the life of him figure out why she’s here, what her _purpose_ is. And it–

It _confuses_ him. 

He is not used to that.

But–

She laughs and smiles and she bakes cookies on the weekends and her voice reminds him of blooming daisies, which is foolish and ridiculous for a large number of reasons. For one, flowers aren’t voices. Flowers are just flowers. 

(She would like white roses, he decides. He’d have to find a way to sneak downtown to the florist’s shop.)

But the way she looks at him– it’s refreshing. Her eyes are bright and clear and filled with something– honesty, or trust, or innocence– and for once Loki is glad to have someone who’s affection doesn’t come with an expiration date.

He gets the feeling that when she looks at him, what she sees isn’t what he sees, isn’t what everyone else sees, and maybe that’s the point. Maybe that’s what matters.

“You know, you’re not really all that bad,” she says, tucked under his arm on the couch while a movie (something Disney, he hadn’t been paying attention) plays on Stark’s colossal television.

He blinks.

“That makes no sense,” he says, confused. “You know full well what I’ve done.”

She shrugs.

“That’s not what I mean.”

And–

Loki isn’t entirely sure he knows what she’s talking about–but he suspects it’s important, it’s something that _she_ believes to be real.

That’s good enough.

He doesn’t say anything else. She leans her head on his shoulder.

(He was wrong, he decides. She isn’t completely useless. He wasn’t as tough as they all thought, and she knew it. The whole time.)


	4. Tony Stark x Reader “You fainted… straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention, you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”

“You fainted… straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention, you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”

It had been an _accident._

When you wake up in the hospital, you’re lying in a clean white cot next to an open window with gauze wrapped around your head, and the surrounding tables are _overflowing_ with various boquets of out-of-season flowers and boxes of overly expensive chocolates, and by the time Tony walks through the door you are legitimately _praying for strength_.

“This is ridiculous,” you say flatly.

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Um, one, _no,”_ he says, pulling up a chair beside your bed. _“_ This is one-hundred-percent necessary. And two–” he pauses, sighs, and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, “You fainted… straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention, you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”

“I didn’t–” you start to say, indignant, as Tony reaches over and steals one of the milk chocolate roman nougats from the half-empty box on your bedside table. “One, I don’t require the contents of _an entire gift shop_ every time I get even vaguely hurt, and _two–_ I was kicked in the head. I– what does that even have to do with you and your—attention, or whatever?”

He shrugs nonchalantly, kicking his feet up on the end of your bed and folding the sleeves of his crisp white Oxford up to his elbows. “Nothing! Nothing. I’m just saying, y'know… you could’ve asked. Or, I don’t know. There’s a nice shawarma place on the corner. Going out for shawarma sounds a lot better than ‘minor concussion’.”

You blink slowly. “Tony, are you trying to ask me on a date?”

He clears his throat. “Ah, no. I think _you_ were asking _me_ on a date. And while I completely understand the art of drama– I think this was a bit much.”

You exhale slowly, and stare up at the ceiling.

And–

Maybe it’s something about his blatant narcissism or how he probably used around five thousand dollars just on a get-well basket or his inability to  grasp the concept of the world not revolving entirely around him, but you’re suddenly biting down on your lower lip to quell what is probably a bout of not-completely-inappropriate laughter because, _honestly,_ how the hell is this man even half a fully functioning adult?

“Okay,” you say slowly, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth, “Right. Tony. Do you want to get shawarma with me sometime?”

Tony tugs out his phone, and opens up his calendar. “Oh, what a surprise. I could do with some company Friday night, and your schedule is coincidentally clear from seven to ten! Sounds like a date.” 


	5. Loki x Reader “Why cant you just open your eyes and see?!” + “I did all of this for you. What more could you want?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warning for heavy angst. Like. Hardcore.

You are wearing a dress to the Yuletide festival. Loki had delivered it personally, his expression unreadable, three days before the dance.

It’s more of a ballgown than a dress, really, dark, rich emerald and backless, the silky fabric pooling around your waist, the skirt spilling down your hips and flaring out in delicate layers embroidered in hand-stitched gold thread. It glints in the flickering light of the torches, casts an almost ethereal glow over your skin, and you like it, you do, you like the way the dress outlines the curve of your waist and how the straps slide over your bare shoulders, delicately, _gently,_ you like the way the gossamer-thin gold ribbon tied right beneath your breasts shimmers and catches the light as you move.

But–

You can’t shake the feeling that something is _wrong._

It’s elegant and it’s pretty and it’s expensive, the kind of dress made to attract attention, the kind of dress to be worn by someone wealthy and powerful.

You are neither of those things.

You aren’t important.

And as you walk down the hall to the ballroom with Loki’s hand pressed delicately between your shoulder blades and a thin gold band depicting his crest resting in your hair and a thousand jealous eyes on you, watching, waiting, for you to slip up and crash and burn so that they can take your place, all you can think is–

_Why me?_

Because you know Loki. You’d known him for most of your life.

You’d known him as his servant, his subordinate, his _slave,_ really, and you hadn’t been friends, not at first, but you’d been there, on the sidelines, as he grew from a manipulative boy into a manipulative man. You had watched him simmer in envy and intelligence and crippling, devastating hatred, and you know that he never does anything without a reason.

You can’t think of a reason for why he’s doing this. Not as the music starts and not as he pulls you close to his body and spins you around and not as he murmurs, grinning, _“You look ravishing in green, darling,”_ as if he actually cared, as if that was even _remotely_ possible.

You don’t mention it. Not in public.

He invites you up to his balcony after the dance. It’s not a request. And even if it was, you wouldn’t be able to say no. Loki pulls out your chair for you to sit down, and there’s two flutes of champagne and a single white rose sitting on the table in front of you and the night air is biting at your cheeks, still rosy red from the stifling heat of the ballroom, and you can’t–

You can’t pretend anymore.

“Did you not enjoy yourself tonight?” Loki asks, quietly, raising an eyebrow in your direction. You can’t read the expression on his face.

“Why are you doing this?” you say finally, wrapping your arms around yourself.

It’s quiet for a long time.

“I don’t understand,” he says, frowning.

You run your fingers along the grooves in the stone table. “I don’t know. It’s– strange. I’ve known you a long time, and I’d like to think I _know_ you, but even if I do, I’ve never really understood your motives. It just doesn’t… it doesn’t make sense.”

Loki’s brow creases, his face flashing with confusion and then understanding and then burnt-bitter, sarcastic anger. “Ah.”

Your stomach churns– with confusion and guilt and indignation, nauseating and sluggish–and then you’re reaching up and you’re tugging the crown out of your hair and setting it down against the table with more force than absolutely necessary.

You think you see Loki clench his hand into a fist. Or maybe you imagined it. Just like you maybe-imagine the way he looks dejected and lifeless and vacant, his eyes hard and cold and the corners of his mouth turned down.

“I just– I don’t– I don’t understand. what do you want from me?” you say, your chest swelling with something hot and furious, and suddenly you’re _angry_ , you’re lost and confused and hurt and he’s manipulating you, again, he always is, since the moment you met, and you’ve never been able to fucking figure him out long enough to escape it, and it’s just–

It’s _not fair._

Loki smiles grimly, and lets out a short, harsh bark of laughter. “You must be joking.”

“I– what?” you say, ignoring your heartbeat, ignoring how your pulse sped up, up, faster and faster, another thing outside of your control. “I’m just trying to understand– what do you _want_? I’m not– I’m not even helpful to you, I’m useless, really, at this point– so what are you even doing this for? What do I have that’s so _special_?”

He blinks. And he looks– shocked, surprised, _stunned_ , really, as if this had never even occured to him, not even once, _not even once_ , which– no, that couldn’t be right, it couldn’t be _true_ , because he’s–

He’s not a good person. He’s hurt people. He would hurt you. This– You couldn’t–

“I did all of this _for_ you,” he says slowly. “What more could you possibly want? What else could I even begin to give you? Is this not enough already?”

 _Liar, liar, liar_ , you think.

“No, no, _stop it_ ,” you say, fiercely, _desperately_ – “You don’t– this is what you do! I’ve seen you do it, you _lie_ and you _pretend_ and you– you could convince anyone, really, but–”

“What–” he begins.

“Don’t. _Don’t_ , ” you snap, feeling the telltale prickling of tears in your eyes, traitorous, pathetic, ridiculous fucking tears. “I– I’ve known you your whole life, Loki, it’s who you _are,_ it’s who you’ve always been, don’t try to say that it isn’t, you’re just–”

“(Name), stop, please–”

But you aren’t listening. You can’t listen, not then and not there and not like that, not with him trying to pretend like he’s not cruel and vindictive and evil, you already know he’d end up hurting you, just because he can and he’d probably like it, too–

“I won’t hurt you,” Loki says, calm and fierce and steadfast.

Your cheeks are wet. You’re crying. And then you hear footsteps, and he’s coming closer, and his hands are on your shoulders, tracing up and following the curve of your neck. You close your eyes. You can’t look at him. You just– this isn’t right. He brushes away the tears from your cheeks and he’s being gentle, too gentle, and you want to tear yourself away and _run run run_ –

“I couldn’t,” he says. “Anyone else, yes, but not you. You’re different. You’re– you belong to me. By my side. I could never hurt you. Not even if I wished to.”

“You’re lying,” you say, as he wraps his arms around your shoulders. “You always lie.”

He chuckles lowly, and grimaces. “You’re so convinced that I wish to hurt you. Why can’t you just open up your eyes and see? Have I not been clear enough of how I think of you?”

You shake your head. “No. No, you only want me safe right now because I guess I’m important, for some reason, I don’t even know, but– once that’s over, once you get what you want– the throne or the realm or the universe–but then, when it’s all over, you won’t– you won’t care. Not once you have what you wanted.”

“Do you know what I want?” Loki asks. And his expression shifts– it changes– microscopically, barely, but it’s different, somehow, intense and intimidating and still dark, yes, but it’s also serious, honest, _sincere_ –

“No,” you laugh tiredly. “No, Loki I don’t know.”

He doesn’t even hesitate.

“You.”

“What?”

“I want you.”

You blink, slowly, swallow past the distant confusion and hesitant distrust in the back of your throat. “And… what do you want from me?”

“I want _you_ ,” he repeats, and it echoes in your ears, again and again and again, his voice deep and raw and slightly raspy–

_“I want **you.** ”_

The world begins to spin.

_“I want **you.** ”_

Your breath catches. Loki smiles, almost sadly.

_“I want…”_

He doesn’t move away.

_“I want…”_

He cups your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone.

_“I…”_

He stays, his hand raised to empty air, even when the sky and the balcony and the town in the distance all fade, even when you fade, even when he’s left standing, alone, staring at blank white walls in an empty prison cell.

“I want you **,** ” Loki whispers, to no one at all.


End file.
